


for salt and sinew (i will bury the sea)

by parttimeroses



Series: be here, so I may stand [3]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24547408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parttimeroses/pseuds/parttimeroses
Summary: five times Philippa thought she knew better, basketball au
Relationships: Michael Burnham/Philippa Georgiou
Series: be here, so I may stand [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1360795
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	for salt and sinew (i will bury the sea)

**Author's Note:**

> Something short! I needed a break from 'part of the journey' and put this together. Two sections were from the original draft of this AU. ~~(imaginary bonus points for whoever figures out which ones!)~~
> 
> I'm thinking of doing more like this. I miss short format fiction.

  
_i._

It wasn’t even preseason yet. There was no reason for her to be in the gym, especially not coming off a rotator cuff strain. Yet there she was, sitting on an incline bench eating an apple, next to where Kat was working out.

“Why don’t you just go get some breakfast?”

“And miss out on this? Never.”

“Miss what exactly?”

“I don’t know, given you’re retiring after this season…”

Kat rolled her eyes and left the barbell at her feet, stepping over it. “I’m not getting any younger.”

“Yeah, looks that way.” Philippa squinted up at her, the lighting in the gym just as harsh as always, Kat’s face framed her delightful frown. She took another bite and wandered off in search for distraction. SportsCenter droned on along the far wall, volume turned up enough to be audible. 

“Houston’s been looking for coaches.” Kat called after her, moving to start on her next set.

“You said you didn’t want to stay in the league.” 

“I’m keeping my options open.” Kat paused, midway through. “Stringer doesn’t have any vacant spots.”

“That _would_ be more your style.” Philippa kept her eyes on the Final Four recap and gave Kat a slight defeated smile. 

“ _And now to women’s college basketball… Oklahoma obliterated Villanova, 95 - 63 last night at the Pavilion, moving them on to the quarter finals for the third year in a row. Junior Michael Burnham leading the Sooners with a game high of 34 points, 14 rebounds, and 10 assists. And that’s not her first triple-double of the season, she’s been tallying games like this since her freshman year…_ ”

The highlight reel played as the commentary talked over the action. Philippa dissected the play, interest piqued. The focus remained on the junior in question, as she cut around a pick and roll, anticipating and stealing the ball before the other team could catch up. She almost flew down the floor, making a layup with confidence. 

The footage moved on to post game interviews, Burnham, towel around her shoulders, her expression composed but she couldn’t stop bouncing on her feet. And then Coach Coale, determined and focused, with the opposite demeanor, joyful.

“You’ve gone quiet. What is it?” Kat asked with a laugh, following to where Philippa had been standing, in front of the screen. 

“She’s light on her feet. Killer hook shot.” 

“Easy now, she’s got another year on her.” Kat grinned, took her lifting gloves off and stuck them in her pocket. She moved to check her phone. “I never thought you were the recruiting type.”

“Who said I was?” Philippa let out an offended sigh and bumped her shoulder to Kat’s. “Come on, let’s go. I’m starving.”

  
_ii._

“I would appreciate it, Michael,” She started, eyes locked on the younger woman. “If you would maintain a level of self-restraint.”

Michael winced in pain, gauze drenched in antiseptic applied to her cheek. She tried to look anyplace else, but Philippa tilted her chin up with her other hand and held her still with steady fingers. 

“They came after you.” 

“They did.” Philippa nodded, dabbing again. She watched the war going on in Michael’s head, spelled out on her face in grimacing and the desperate need to run away. But she knew then to stop fussing, gripped the seat of her chair with pale knuckles to quell the urge. “But that’s nothing to get ejected for.”

“But—” The gauze came away stained red, but the bleeding was at last abated. Michael frowned, her grip loosened, hands splayed. 

Philippa took a breath, felt a pang of affection in her chest. She felt like such a hypocrite, talking about curbing impulses, when all she wanted to do was— 

“Trust when I say I can handle it, hm?” And Michael nodded as she continued. Philippa ran her thumb across the underside of Michael’s jaw. 

_iii._

“Wow.” Michael let out a low whistle when they arrived at the doorstep to their home for the off-season. “How’d you get this to happen again?”

Philippa bites her lip to keep her smile contained. Though she couldn’t stop herself from raising an eyebrow. “I know people.” 

“Sounds dangerous.” She dropped her bag to swat at Michael’s hip. “Ow! Dangerous for them!”

Philippa rolled her eyes and let Michael continue wandering the ground floor, wide eyed with excitement. “And we’re a few blocks from the beach?” 

Philippa nodded in confirmation. The two bedroom townhouse was newer construction, an open floor plan for the kitchen and living area. She had jumped through hoops to get it, that Michael liked it was appreciation enough for her. 

They compromised their way into a new routine. Michael would get the coffee maker set up for their return, Philippa made sure to have the keys and a watch on her before they left.

They’d make a round trip after at least half an hour of running on the beach, sometimes barefoot in the sand. Philippa would claim the shower, out of seniority and for kicks, and Michael would stretch in the living room while coffee brewed. And they would swap; Michael got cleaned up while Philippa sat at their nook of a workspace that doubled as a kitchen table, checking emails. 

They always managed to have two mugs waiting on the counter.

  
_iv._

The gold in Rio left a taste in her mouth, not unlike over-ripe fruit. Sweet, falling apart in her hands with the slightest pressure. And it was all too much. 

Michael took her hand, teary-eyed, and clung to her after they both finished with press. She lingered all the way back to the apartments, all the way into her bed that night, side by side. 

Even as Michael dozed off, worn from the high of another win, the weight of exhaustion settled deep in her bones, Philippa’s eyes stayed open. 

The gentle part of her said ‘ _keep watch_ ’ and the melancholy, ‘ _she’ll be gone soon_ ’. And the bitter, twisting in her gut took over; ‘ _she’ll forget you soon_ ’. 

She relented against it, the wave of emotion crashing down on the shore of her mind, carving away all the opportunities, the chances wasted.

Philippa forced her eyes to stay open well into the night, when Michael had shifted, turned to lay on her back, legs twisted in the sheets, having left none of the covers for her. She knew she would never mind it, as she watched Michael’s profile, the steady rise and fall of her ribs with each breath. 

Her eyes closed and she dreamt of Valencia. A blank sky, the ocean, the salt in her lungs. 

_v._

The news arrives like a thief in the night and Michael is gone by the end of the week. Neither of them are offered an opportunity for reflection or to reconcile. 

Philippa forgets about solitude, forgets that she should be graceful in these final moments and rages instead. 

Management doesn’t like her very much afterward, but they know, blood runs deep -deeper than politics and money under the table, wanting sponsors, poaching players- when the fan base adores you. 

(Kat calls her late one night, melodic voice irking at Philippa’s ear. “ _You’ve really pulled some kind of stunt, haven’t you?_ ”

A question which she doesn’t deign with an answer, only an angry retort. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping along with the rest of the old ladies, Kat?”

She gets a bark of laughter in her ear, “ _Pot, kettle, darling._ ”)

They barrel through the playoffs, with the momentum Michael created herself. Philippa’s fury only carries them on.

Coach benches her at his discretion, but she knows she’ll have her name and number in the rafters after this season is over, despite everything that’s happened between her and the franchise. It’s the same thing that Michael deserves, but will not get. 

Philippa lets the anger set herself in motion, until the final whistle goes on their season, _on her career_.

And then there is nothing left but for her to let go.


End file.
